Music shall caress you
by Whispurrs
Summary: A dark character study of Forte and his thoughts, his emotions and the reasons for his downfall; complexity is promised. Hard to fit into a genre, but I think the ones below are adequate.


** Music shall Caress you**

**I noticed Forte had the brilliant total of 6 fan fictions; and since I cannot commit myself to a full length one as of yet, with Camelot Rising my big project, but I decided to treat him with a one shot for now.**

**The title comes from a lyric of phantom of the Opera, which is not mine, nor is this character, more complex than he gets credited for.**

**This is a character exploration, so that's why it breaks the show don't tell rule a little, and it will be far more subtle if and when I get onto creating a wider fic about him.**

**Also, if he sounds like a hypocrite in this - he's insane; ok?**

Darkness and coldness.

Two words that all those awkward, intelligent angels avoid like they carried the plague, rats, twitching their whiskers at the urine stained feet of prisoners in some grim and awful dungeon, seemingly made of filth and bricks as cold to the touch as the heart of he who imprisoned them.

Two words that he basked and revelled in; that were his solace; things that would never bend or break or wound.

The darkness was far kinder, wiser, and gentler than perceived in lore; able to soothe his shadows and depths as they hid, snuggled into his bitterness and destitution; burying further into it his doubts, on life and love, two things he never seemed to waver in to those who cared to observe his life, i.e. none other than his faithful, yet undeniably irritating piccolo.

Why then did he make that faithful ally of his into something to be maimed and laughed at; when he was the only one other than the decreasing fleeting glimpses of his master to prevent complete solitude?

It is as simply answered as any question, but with not such a simple answer as the others people may and ought to ask.

Fife represented something more than a great nuisance with an abundance of odd loyalty to Forte, something that to others he would never reveal but something that nonetheless he was particularly conscious of within himself; a thing that could not die even as it was overpowered, nor quell as it was engulfed in his glorious lames, tiny,, screeching, begging for help and other prayers to come unanswered.

Of course, despite all this, he still treated Fife as a bona fide nuisance; after all, with all the theories on evil that the world abounds with, it does not erase that evil itself; and personality traits follow this rule to a T.

Personalities usually slink of, defying rule an explanation, spitting phlegm, perhaps vomiting at all theory and convention, fleeing Karma better than any soul; the clever traits sticking to the shadows, where they would be tamed, domesticated and unallowed their majesty.

Even Fife could not stay forever; annoying as he was, his friendly disposition gained him far less enemies and damn it, _he_ could walk, he could rip himself from place to place without causing his death.

The beast could _live_, the best thing he could hope for was to observe.

His thoughts turned to the Beast; once a confidant, until one day forever remembered with embittered memory, he lost his fur and became another object, one glacial and hateful with every second that wilted the damn rose; if he could handle it he would rip each petal off and be done the anguish the flower bought; and yet as fragile as it was he could not; for he had no hands; a common occurrence in his uncommon home- no residence, meant at least to be temporary.

But they could at least move, a stretch of his head, if he could even call it a proper one, could bring about his death, and though some days he wanted to stretch his limit and fall into glorious crumbled, be nothing but a pile of rubble, to be removed from all memory as soon as he was removed from life, but knowing the castle some bloody fairy would poof up and change him into sheer hell and promise he'd be cured by the woman with the biggest bust in town.

He never wanted a life from olden tales, such dreams were women's silly idle playthings, to clouded in romance to lead to anywhere but their downfall; he just wanted a life as far moved from reality whilst being within its strict parameters as he could.

He too was well aware of its impossibility, but like so many things in his life; he had simply forgotten to care about it; or, perhaps more truthfully never would.

He was not a man for small niggling details, life was too full of them for him to even try to approach them; he preferred to get engulfed by the bigger picture, a picture that often became grainy, and often trapped him.

He, however, unlike those paragons of paradoxical normality had no qualms about his entrapment, and found it so harshly named; to be taken, to be swallowed by that picture felt closer to heaven, or at least far more idyllic than anyone other than himself could imagine.

If he closed his eyes, and imagined his music, blossoming into miraculous crescendos that would sweep the whole castle off its foundations he would be basking in heaven's light.

Still, even the miracle of his symphonies could be twisted by luck; could it not?

The tunes that to him were on par with angels, not because they were crafted by his hand; but because of the blissful miracles they performed on his soul; still miracles though they were, like the supposed God that created them they could heal nothing that they were hailed for, a beautiful pretence that moved with reality.

He needed them anyway; at least to drown the sounds of questioning voices, in the harsh tone of his enemies and the tragic, intensely horrifying ones of those whose lives had succumbed.

Those screams, digging into him, begging him not to be his own derailment…but what were screams when he could make music, he started humming, revelling in how insane he would sound; since when all else had died, insanity would keep him living.

''La, la, la, la la, la, dum da dum da dum da dum.''

The half words rolled on his tongue, turning dark and grim and yet his tone stayed suspiciously light, like he was going to burst out into laughter as soon as he had finished his tune; laughter that would ripple inside his non-existent veins, pumping into his invisible; impossible blood, surging with such a feral ferocity that his descent to madness would become quite complete, and with just intent he could drive all but the important to their death's; greeted by the Reaper they deserved for smiling, for grinning and laughing while he was himself; damn it all, if they should see Death then why not Lucifer, that glorious fallen angel to suffocate them and drown out their abhorrent noise; so he could proceed with his sounds.

An epiphany, of small size and little consequence came to him; why not play it, deafen the dull conversation repeated day after day on a merciless loop, drown it out with passion and wonder; and if the master was inflamed by it, all the better; at least it would drag him from those things he dared to call his dreaded depths.

The emerald mist flowed around him as he played; clinging to the soul of the notes, soothing him with its adoration, trying to assure him it was only of importance, caressing him, but that did not stop his mind's insatiable appetite for blame and hate and hurt; and even if it shined like the glory from the halos of angels he would still be blind.

His problems were far lesser; after all; could he not shave and pretend he was a victim of terrible, incurable illness; then proceed to blind the village wenches with money that flowed enough like wine to keep all unwanted comments away?

If worst did come to its _most horrific_ worst, and , _oh, woe_ for their forsaken humanity, they stayed in whatever situation it was they were currently in; could he not find a bestial mate; some who looked more like men even enjoyed that sort of thing.

Of course, none of these thoughts were spoken; instead he nodded [to the best of his ability] and consoled his laments, told him that the world would find a place for one such as him other than the inevitable grave.

Despite his qualms at the boy [which was what he still considered the Prince to be] some of his worship was more than a mockery of basking in his splendour; though he was by far one to prefer Aphrodite over Adonis, to have another not burdened or tainted by the light and carefree attitude at times tasted celestial.

He smiled at the irony of the tune; undecided on whether he was elated or morose that those beneath him were never to know; just to long for him to join in their petty little hopes, undeniably to be squashed like cockroaches fed on the filth and faeces of the dungeon, twitching at the sight of new food; and far too arrogant to die with a simple squish and crunch like all the other pests he had come across in his life; large or otherwise.

A bit of mess was all that was left when he had his way, but those insatiably ignorant little buggers just had to have their way, thinking themselves above him for even they could walk.

It was years since they had spread from their usual habitat of the dungeon; but since they discovered that there was not in fact rotten flesh or stench of death lingering there, just the perfectly predictable and obnoxiously tame decay they had been planning an invasion on the entirety of the castle; which led him to think it was most odd, even in the rural; void of significance town tucked safely behind the forest that even if it would not produce great thinkers or musicians, it had not produced a man so raging in hormones who had chanced upon a wreck of his accommodation would not gain a party of men willing to steal from it.

God, he'd even _help _them; those insufferable fools who could not see beyond their bullish nature would be his allies; Lord, how he had plummeted in the world!

If they knew that, nothing would happen; how in God's name could he be killed; and besides, they had neither the strength nor the heart [what a silly muscle] to do anything against him, and in his state what against him would be done?

He would have to bide what he could not abide, the slow swinging pendulum of time.

Tick tock, tick, tock, strolled his thoughts, swinging like a pendulum Poe would love to place well into nightmares absentmindedly until, far beneath him, a door creaked open and a weary traveller asked for help and comfort.

Little then did he know that an insignificant, portly and balding man, hardly the sort you'd expect to change a life, let alone a conglomeration of them walked in, shivering; setting fate on its course.

Though the town would not grow any more significance within itself, one woman within it would; his downfall was going to arrive in a dress, as his life had descended with a pipe organ.

Who else left the world in a shroud of music?

**So, that's the end of my character study, and hopefully when I am finished with my full fic I can get onto a proper sized one with this character.**


End file.
